


This Goddamn Country

by eucatastrophe__x



Series: On-Screen Brothers to Off-Screen Lovers [1]
Category: The Hobbit RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, Fluff, M/M, New Zealand, Pining, Tags Are Fun, Wellington - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-03-31 20:05:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3991024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eucatastrophe__x/pseuds/eucatastrophe__x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Aidan resented New Zealand - and one time he really didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

1.

“Get in, loser, we’re going shopping.”

After three weeks, Dean was still perplexed by some of the cast’s bonding methods, but this took the cake.

“Mean Girls? Really?”

“Cinematic masterpiece,” Aidan grinned, unrepentant, his lean body crammed into the driver’s seat of the ludicrously small car and his knees practically up around his ears, “but seriously, come on, Deano.”

Dean slid into the passenger seat of the car obediently, and couldn’t help but notice it was much more his size than Aidan’s. Maybe someone at the rental car company was playing a joke on him: give the tall actor the tiny little car and watch him try to drive without putting his knees through the roof or his elbow through the window.

“So… where is it that we’re going?”

“Well,” Aidan wheedled, “that’s kind of why you’re here.”

“I see,” he smirked, “so it’s not actually me you want but a talking map.”

The teasing helped Dean to stay coherent. He liked spending time with his on-screen brother – he just tended to find it a bit easier when there were other people around as well.

The problem was not so much Aidan, per se, as the giant, mutant, out of control crush that Dean had on him.

It had come out of nowhere and blindsided him. Well, perhaps that wasn’t quite fair – he’d smiled at Dean at the audition and he had known then that he was done for.

The huge hug that he’d been greeted with upon getting the part (even if he hadn’t been Peter’s first choice, a fact that he was constantly aware of and constantly trying to forget) just cemented it.

“Come on, brother, you know how I enjoy your company.”

That was another thing: Aidan constantly called him ‘brother.’ In a way, it was nice – but it also served as a constant reminder of the fact that that was all Aidan saw him as: a colleague, a brother, a friend.

Not a lover.

Definitely not.

He was very much spoken for, after all – Dean had done some preliminary googling once he realised that his infatuation wasn’t going away, and the flood of pictures of Aidan and Sarah had hit him like a punch in the solar plexus. Not only was he blazingly unavailable, but Dean obviously didn’t have the equipment he was looking for.

Dean was trying to get over it.

The only problem was that his feelings were still so overwhelming that doing so was going to take a while.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean grinned, “so tell me – before we get to the roundabout, preferably – where you want to go.”

“Ikea,” Aidan said simply, “there are a few things I want to pick up for my trailer – made a list before I came over but never got around to going. But it’s weird – it’s not coming up on my phone GPS… So I figured you’d be the next best thing.” He shot Dean a pleased grin as he navigated a gap in the traffic, driving through the roundabout towards Kilbirnie. “So, Mr O’Gorman, you’re up. Where am I going? City, yeah?”

Dean’s brain had short-circuited at the first word and he couldn’t work out how best to break the news to Aidan. In the few weeks he had been on set, he had learned that the other man had Views (with a capital V) on Wellington and New Zealand – specifically, on their shortcomings. He didn’t appear to be particularly bitter about them (it was more a running joke than anything), and the rest of the cast certainly indulged him, but Dean had never had to let him down like this before.

“Aidan, there’s no Ikea in New Zealand.”

“Very funny,” he responded idly, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel as he reached down to turn the music up, “ooh, I love this song. So, which way?”

“…I’m serious.”

“Hmm?”

“Aidan, there is no Ikea in this country.”

Finally, he had Aidan’s attention. “What?”

He repeated himself for the third time and watched a series of emotions flicker across Aidan’s face, his mouth opening and closing in disbelief as he tried to work out how to respond. “You’ve got to be joking. It’s a global chain. _Global._ ”

“Yeah, well. It hasn’t got to New Zealand yet, funnily enough.”

It wasn’t exactly an uncommon occurrence, international things (be it shops, fashion, food…) taking a good half-decade to reach the bottom of the globe. Dean was used to it.

Aidan had clearly never experienced it before.

“For Christ’s sake,” he muttered, “this country, honestly. Well, where can we go instead then? What’s your no doubt piss poor equivalent?”

“Briscoes?” Dean offered, and Aidan wrinkled his nose. “Sounds like a disease.” There was a pause as he accelerated, tailgating the car in front obnoxiously. “Are we at least heading in the right direction?”

Dean decided not to tell him that the nearest Briscoes was in Lyall Bay – in exactly the opposite direction. “Yeah, it’s just off Courtenay Place.”

“Oh.” Aidan perked up – he knew all about Courtenay Place. Since they’d first arrived in Wellington, the dwarves had spent many a raucous night out exploring the restaurants, pubs and clubs the street had to offer. Unfortunately, there were fewer adventures to be had on a Tuesday afternoon, so they contented themselves with nabbing a park right in front of the doors and slowly strolling around the shop.

The easy banter (not to mention the debate over ceramic versus silicon kitchenware) left Dean feeling very much like one half of a couple spending a lazy Sunday afternoon buying things they didn’t need for the home they’d built together. The thought made him smile, and he carefully filed it away for the next lonely rainy evening in his trailer.

“God, Dean, come and feel this.”

Aidan was holding a fleecy blanket, rubbing it against his face with a blissed out expression. “It’s so soft, feel.”

Dean brushed his fingers over the fabric dubiously, aware of Aidan’s tendency to exaggerate, and – “Damn, I need one of those in my life.”

“Get your own,” Aidan retorted, clutching his wares to his chest, “this one’s mine.”

Aidan insisted on unwrapping his new blanket properly as soon as they were back in the car, spreading it over his lap so he could touch it and drive at the same time. The constant refrain of, “Dean, touch it, it’s so soft, oh my god,” and the happy, satisfied little snuffling noises Aidan kept making were not helping his sanity – all he could think of were the double entendres (of which Aidan seemed to be completely, obnoxiously unaware).

He was going to have some urgent business to attend to once he was back in his trailer.

It would involve a locked door and some creative mental images – possibly involving Aidan being wrapped in that blanket and nothing else, or possibly stretched out on top of it as Dean mapped and measured every inch of him with his tongue…

Yes, it was a very good thing that they were nearly home.

“Thanks for coming with me, Deano,” Aidan said as he pulled back into the studio carpark.

“No doubt you’d be halfway to Auckland now, still looking for Ikea, if I hadn’t,” Dean smirked. Aidan just shrugged in concession. “Honestly, though, I can’t believe there’s not a single one in this country. It’s an abomination.”

“Take it up with the Prime Minister,” he teased. Aidan wouldn’t be able to recognise John Key if his life depended on it.

“You know, if I’m going to have to spend another year in this goddamn country, I might just have to.”

 

2.

Dean wasn’t entirely surprised to awaken to a full-on Wellington storm.

They’d been told it was coming, and lying in his trailer – listening to the rain lashing the windows and the howling wind – he was particularly glad that they’d already finished location shooting. The storm was so loud it had woken him up before his alarm, which was a feat in itself. But he enjoyed bad weather, on the whole – being inside in the warm, watching a DVD or reading or editing photos with a hot coffee or a strong drink – and it wasn’t something for which he could ever resent Wellington.

Aidan, he had discovered, did not share those sentiments.

“You’re from _Dublin_ ,” Dean had said incredulously (and trying to keep the laughter out of his voice), the first time he’d established why Aidan was wearing such a fierce scowl, “you can’t honestly be complaining about a little bit of wind and rain.”

“Dean, this is not a ‘little bit’ of _anything,_ ” he’d pouted, waving an arm in the direction of the window, “and if you tell me it is only a little bit by Wellington standards, I might just have to pack up and leave.”

He was joking.

Mostly.

But the drizzle that day (well, it wasn’t exactly drizzle, but it wasn’t a deluge either) didn’t even come close to the rainfall that they were expecting now. So Dean worried, as he slid out of bed and headed for his trailer’s tiny little bathroom, that Aidan’s mood today would be as black as the weather.

It was.

Aidan slammed into the wardrobe trailer with a face that would curdle milk and an umbrella in his hand.

An umbrella that had very clearly seen better days.

Oh.

Dean shared a look with the makeup artists as Aidan slumped into the chair next to him, groaning. “This goddamn city, I swear.”

“Maybe you should ask if you can move your trailer closer to makeup and wardrobe,” Dean suggested with a small grin, but Aidan didn’t bite, so he tried again. “What happened to your umbrella?”

“Wellington,” Aidan frowned. On closer inspection, Dean could see that it was well and truly destroyed, the whole thing inverted and the ribs bent beyond repair. It had been a nice one, too – looked expensive. He was impressed that the weather had been able to do so much damage in the one minute run from Aidan’s trailer to makeup. “Did no one tell you about umbrellas in Wellington?”

“What, that you shouldn’t use one?”

“Pretty much,” Dean snickered, “it’s a failsafe way to spot the tourists.”

“Colour me a tourist, then,” he sighed, leaning back and letting his makeup artist get to work, speaking through mostly closed lips. “Sarah bought it for me – today was literally only the third or fourth time I’ve used it, and now it’s ruined.”

A sour taste had filled Dean’s mouth at the mention of Sarah’s name, but he couldn’t help but feel slightly pleased that her gift to Aidan had been decimated beyond repair. Wellington was clearly on his side. 

“Why is it always so fucking _windy_ here?” Aidan groaned. Clearly, he was aggrieved by the loss of the umbrella, and was going to resent Wellington for some time as a result.

Dean found it just a little bit adorable.

To no one’s surprise, the rain persisted throughout the day – if anything, it got heavier – and the wind picked up. Aidan was less than thrilled with both developments, and even less so when one of the crew told him that the wind wasn’t bad by Wellington standards – after all, it was possible to stand still outside without tripping over your own feet. This clearly did not comfort him in any way.

By the end of the day, he had mostly adjusted – until it came time to run back to their trailers. “Come on,” Dean prompted, “you’ll be back in the warm in no time.”

“Can’t we just wait until the rain stops?”

“If you want to sit here for another three days, be my guest.” He held out a hand – finally free of prosthetics – to Aidan, feeling a pathetic surge of pleasure when he accepted it, twisting their fingers together. “Alright, brother, lead the way.”

Rain was puddling enthusiastically across the lot (he’d been tempted to duck outside during lunch and jump around in his dwarf boots) and their shoes were drenched before they were halfway to Aidan’s trailer. The Irish man was so busy whining that he hadn’t noticed his laces come undone – until he tripped on them, collapsing in a pile of too-long limbs and bringing Dean down with him.

“Oh, _fuck_ it,” he groaned, and Dean couldn’t help but laugh, dirty rainwater soaking through his jeans and running down his face – and then, finally, Aidan smiled. “I’m just going to have to accept this weather, aren’t I?”

“Resistance is futile,” Dean smirked, “now come on, get back to your trailer and get changed and I’ll be there in five for a movie and a cup of tea, yeah?”

Five and a half minutes later, Dean was pushing the door to Aidan’s trailer open and discarding his clean but already damp hoodie. “Aid, are you –”

The words died in his throat and he felt his mouth go dry as Aidan reappeared, wearing far fewer clothes than Dean was expecting. His ridiculously gorgeous arse was clad in a pair of black boxers, and a towel was wrapped around his head, but that was it.

“Figured I’d have a shower, but I obviously wasn’t as quick as I’d hoped. Want to put the kettle on?”

“Uh,” Dean managed, torn between staring at the floor and Aidan’s torso, “yeah, sure.”

Thankfully, he had managed to get his breathing under control by the time the kettle had boiled – Aidan putting some clothes on helped, too.

“This is kind of nice,” Aidan acknowledged, fingers curled around his tea and his beloved fluffy blanket covering both their laps. Dean thought that ‘kind of nice’ fell woefully short (though there was still a lot of room for improvement: for example, if Aidan had not got dressed at all and had instead focused on removing all of Dean’s clothes as well). It was one of the more enjoyable evenings off he’d had in a while.

“But?”

“But I still hate this fucking weather.”

 

3.

Dean was not psychic by any stretch of the imagination – but when Aidan’s phone rang from inside his costume pocket while they were eating lunch, he suddenly knew that something was very, very wrong.

“Dean, you look like you’re going to be sick.”

He barely noticed Richard’s words or the hand on his shoulder, his eyes fixed on Aidan – who gave him a strange look as he answered the call. “Mum?”

Ten seconds later, all the blood had drained from Aidan’s face. Eyes glazed, he pushed his chair back wordlessly and all but ran outside, leaving behind eleven confused dwarves and one confused hobbit.

The twelfth dwarf followed him.

Dean kept an appropriate distance, carefully not listening to Aidan’s hushed conversation, but unable to ignore the unhappy sighs and groans he kept making. “Okay, I’ll – look, I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’m sure we can work something out.” A pause. “I’ll see you soon, promise. I love you too. Bye, Mum.”

Aidan slumped down the side of the building, staring blankly forward, even when Dean sat next to him and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze (damn it, Dean, he chastised himself, stop using the situation for your personal gain).

“My granddad had a stroke.”

“God, Aidan, I’m sorry. That’s rough.”

“He’s always been so… healthy. And now he… I don’t get it. And – Christ, why now? Why would this happen _now_?”

“Is he…?” Dean asked carefully, trying to skirt around the question. Thankfully, Aidan knew what he meant. “He’s in hospital. He’s okay – for now. They’ve done a few scans, but they don’t know what’s going to happen next – if he’s going to get better or worse. It could well be worse.”

He paused, his voice transitioning from anxious to determined in the time it took to draw breath.

“I’ve got to go.”

“Where?” Dean asked stupidly, his brain sluggish.

“Dublin.”

Peter rearranged the shooting schedule overnight, holed up with Fran and Philippa and several litres of tea and coffee, before telling Aidan the next morning that he could have a week. Aidan had thanked him fervently before pulling him into a hug.

And only then, Dean discovered, did he look at flights.

“Fucking unbelievable,” he groaned, banging his head rhythmically against the table. “This fucking country, I swear.”

He glared at Dean like he had personally insulted him. “Do you know how long it would take me to get home if I was in London? How much it would cost? An hour and a half, and a couple of hundred quid max. I’d be there the same day. Hell, I can nap for longer than that flight takes.”

Dean stayed silent, waiting for the rest of the vent. There was clearly more.

“But,” he continued, sure enough, “flying to Dublin from _Wellington_ is another story. Guess,” he prompted, “go on. Guess how long it’s going to take.”

He didn’t give Dean a chance to reply. “Forty two hours, Dean, forty two fucking hours. Airport to airport. Three flights, two giant, time sucking stopovers, and a thousand years queuing in immigration… Not to mention a thousand pounds each way!” He slammed a fist onto the table in frustration. “Why is this country so goddamn _isolated_?”

Dean was lost.

There was nothing he could say that would make this better – so he played it safe, doing what he knew Aidan would do if their positions were reversed. Scooting closer, he wrapped both arms around Aidan’s waist and tugged him into an embrace.

“It’ll all be okay, Aid,” he promised, “he’s going to be just fine. He’ll get through this just fine, you’ll see. And,” he remembered, “you’ll get to see Sarah while you’re there.”

The words tasted bitter, but Aidan didn’t notice, a flicker of a smile crossing his face for the first time. “Yeah, actually, that will be good.”

Dean kept up the unfailing optimism until Aidan was closing the car door, his suitcase dragging behind him as he walked through the glass doors of the airport terminal – and only then did he slam his fists against the steering wheel.

It was a lonely week.

In fairness, Dean was constantly surrounded by the other dwarves (Adam in particular had taken it upon himself to step up as Aidan’s replacement, which Dean appreciated) – but he missed his brother.

Fuck, he was so out of his depth.

To make things worse, every time he thought of Aidan (which, to be honest, was at least every few minutes), he also thought of Sarah.

Specifically, he thought of Aidan and Sarah.

Together.

Because they would be – of course they would be. He couldn’t spend every moment at the hospital, and he was bound to want to take advantage of being in the same city as his girlfriend for the first time in months.

And Sarah would be kissing those lips, splaying her fingers over that chest, wrapping her legs around that waist and making him pant and moan and sob in all the ways Dean wanted to.

By the fifth day, he couldn’t stand it anymore.

He timed the call carefully: he didn’t want to drag Aidan away from time with his family, and he knew that he always slept with his phone on silent, so he waited until the early hours of the morning Dublin time and was relieved when the ringing clicked over to Aidan’s cheery voicemail.

“Hey, brother,” he began, feeling like a bit of an idiot, “I just wanted to check in – hope everything’s going okay over there – I mean,” he stuttered (Christ, Dean, his grandfather’s sick, how okay could things be going?), “well, I hope you’re doing okay.”

The awkwardness of rambling into Aidan’s voicemail lessened and then disappeared entirely as he continued, treading a path back and forth from one end of his trailer to the other until he heard a beep through the phone telling him he’d run out of time.

But he couldn’t resist calling back.

“Sorry, I got cut off… Anyway, like I said, ah, I hope you’re okay and I – we miss you. We all miss you.”

He didn’t get a response for two days (not that that was entirely unexpected – Aidan was busy and probably had no credit and definitely wasn’t organised enough to sit down and think about time zones) but then –

The surge of happiness that shot through his chest when Aidan’s name appeared on the screen of his phone was embarrassing – not that that put a dent in his excitement in any way.

“Aid?”

“Deano.” He could practically hear Aidan’s smile down the phone.

“Where are you?”

“Airport.”

“Dublin?”

“Yeah.”

“What time do you get back?”

Dean had never scrambled out of his costume or ripped off his beard and wig and prosthetics quite so fast. He was still rubbing the dried glue off his face as he hurled himself into his car and shot out of the studio.

The airport was quiet at this time of night, the commuter flights having finished long ago, and Dean stretched across a row of seats by the entrance to the international wing of the terminal, distracting himself with his phone until newly arrived passengers started to trickle out.

For some reason, he’d expected Aidan to look different for being home for a week – but no, he was just the same, just as heart-stoppingly beautiful, hands tucked into his pockets and hood covering his dishevelled hair. And Dean jumped out of his chair, unable to tame his growing grin.

“I can’t believe you really came.”

“You really think I’d make you get a taxi? I’d rather see you tonight than the grumpy bastard you’re going to be tomorrow morning.”

“Mm, I’m going to be so jetlagged you’ll wish I’d never come back at all.”

Not likely, Dean thought. “So, how was it?”

“He’s doing okay – much better, actually. He’s out of hospital – back at home – a lot more hesitant than he used to be, though. Gets confused easily, has to have a nap in the afternoon, can’t really look after himself so well anymore.” He took a deep breath that turned into an enormous yawn. “But he’s good. Better than I expected. I’m glad I went back, though.”

“And the rest of your family?”

He couldn’t ask about Sarah. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to think about her – not when Aidan was back and smiling and finally his again.

“To be honest, I think I drove them all mad with stories about the movie and New Zealand.”

“Wait, what? Extolling New Zealand’s virtues? You must be getting used to it here,” Dean teased, accepting the gentle punch to his shoulder that his words earned with a smirk.

“Not fucking likely, Deano.”

 

4.

“Please tell me you have booze.”

Dean rubbed his eyes confusedly, but no – when he reopened them, it was still way too fucking early in the morning. And Aidan was still standing there, dressed in yesterday’s clothes and looking like he hadn’t slept at all, a shadow of stubble creeping across his jaw, and a pleading expression on his face.

Dean wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

Wordlessly, he stood back, letting Aidan into his trailer only to have him make a beeline for the mini-fridge, just about jumping out of his skin when the Irish man let out a roar of frustration, slamming the fridge door with such force that it just bounced open again before hurling himself onto the couch.

Dean closed the fridge himself, noting the solitary bottle of beer tucked into the door. It obviously wasn’t going to cut it.

“Aidan, what’s going on?”

“I need booze,” he repeated, his voice muffled by the cushions, “and I went out to buy some and I drove around every single fucking liquor store in this city and they’re all fucking _closed_. What is _wrong_ with this country?”

“Mate, it’s Anzac Day.” All the international cast members had been educated about it – the national holiday to remember the Kiwi and Australian soldiers who had died at Gallipoli during World War One. Funnily enough, once they’d heard about the late start, none of them (bar Richard) had been all that enthused about getting up for the traditional dawn service. However, their lesson had skipped over what was clearly an important component of the day – one which Aidan was not going to appreciate.

“Yeah, I know,” Aidan peered up at him confusedly, “what does that have to do with anything?”

Dean almost wanted to laugh – probably would have, if Aidan didn’t look so highly strung. “There’s a ban on alcohol trading before midday.”

“There’s a – what? How is that a thing? What moron thought that was a good idea? Oh, I don’t believe it.” He rolled over again, burying his face in the cushions. “I hate this fucking country.”

Something was patently wrong. Aidan drank like a fish, it was true, but Dean had never seen him quite so desperate for alcohol – especially not at (he checked his phone) quarter to eight in the morning. He lamented his inability to keep the necessities on hand for a few seconds before grabbing his keys.

“Drink this, and stay here.” He thrust the leftover beer into Aidan’s hand. “I’ll be back in ten minutes.” Not giving the other man a chance to reply, he ducked out the door.

It was a short drive to Connor’s house, since he had made the intelligent call to buy property in Miramar once he’d started working for Weta, so he could avoid long commutes at all hours of the day and night. Dean and Connor had known each other for years – the entertainment industry in New Zealand was miniscule, after all – and, since Dean was normally based in Auckland, Connor had given him a key to his flat and told him he could use it whenever he needed some breathing space.

Today, it wasn’t breathing space he was after, but booze. And Connor – bless him, and his legendary parties – had a very well-stocked liquor cabinet.

The house was silent when Dean arrived, and Connor’s car wasn’t in the garage. Dean let himself in and headed straight to the kitchen/dining room and – oh, yes, this would do nicely.

Aidan was still on the couch when he got back, arms crossed and staring at the wall, though he did glance hopefully at Dean as he appeared. That glance turned into a full-blown grin at the two shot glasses pinched between one thumb and forefinger, and the bottle of tequila hanging from the other hand.

“Deano, you’re a star.”

Dean ignored the twist in his gut as he poured two shots, handing one to Aidan, who continued to treat him to his first smile of the day. “Bottoms up, brother.”

Four shots later, Dean was feeling warm and relaxed and Aidan’s tongue had been decidedly loosened. “It’s all over with Sarah.”

“Christ, Aid, I’m sorry. I didn’t – what happened?”

“She obviously thought things had run their course. Me being on the other fucking side of the world didn’t help, though.”

Another shot.

“Fuck it, just give me the bottle.”

Dean obliged warily, his eyes glued to Aidan’s throat as he swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. A few shots on an empty stomach had clearly dulled his ability to look away. But Christ, the man was so beautiful, even when he was unclean and unshaven and well on the way to drunk before nine in the morning.

“You’d think she would have had the guts to do it in person,” he continued, staring down the neck of the bottle, almost as if Dean wasn’t there at all. “I saw her the other week, remember, and everything was fine. But she’d obviously already made up her mind. Said my heart wasn’t in it anymore – what the fuck does that mean? She can’t – hic – I never said anything – hic – being with her was just so much _easier_.”

He fell silent, turning his bleary gaze onto Dean.

“Oh, Deano, I’m so fucked.”

You and me both, Dean thought idly, but didn’t vocalise the thought. “It’ll all work out in the end, Aid, promise.”

“You’re the best,” he whispered, carefully setting the now half-empty bottle back on the floor and motioning to Dean to come closer, “thank you, brother.”

“Anytime,” Dean murmured back, settling in against Aidan’s side, a position that they’d carefully honed over the past months. They’d fallen asleep on set in the same way a few times, too – much to the amusement of whichever cast member found them, slumped against a tree trunk in Mirkwood or a wall in Dale or, once, on a pile of gold in Erebor. Aidan was a cuddler – he couldn’t help it – and Dean, for obvious reasons, wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to take full advantage, not least when Aidan was tipsy and pliant.

So he closed his eyes, basking in the other man’s warmth, knowing that they had to be in makeup by noon and that they’d both feel terrible when they woke up from drinking at such a pace so early in the morning… but finding himself unable to care in the slightest.

Reality could wait.

“You and your ridiculous holidays,” Aidan complained, the words coming out in a hoarse slur, “honestly.”

“Shut up and go to sleep.”

 

5.

“Liquor before beer, you’re in the clear; beer before liquor, never been sicker,” Mark chanted gleefully, earning a groan from the dark-haired mass in the corner. Dean eyed it with trepidation. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Hungover as hell,” Adam chipped in helpfully. “Yeah, no kidding.”

“After your morning tipple yesterday, he decided to continue things on his own,” Richard elaborated from the chair closest to Aidan. “He called me at two this morning, shouting about Fili and Erebor, but he had no idea where he was, so Jed and I had to go and find him…”

“Where was he?”

“Honestly?” Mark snickered. “Do you really want to know?”

“Now I do,” Dean grinned, wondering how much trouble Aidan could have gotten into by himself, in Wellington, on a weeknight.

“He was swimming in the bucket fountain.”

“You’re _joking_.”

Richard passed over his phone and Dean couldn’t help the bark of laughter that escaped his throat at the picture of Aidan, grinning triumphantly and half-submerged in the iconic fountain on Cuba St. “Aid, do you have any idea how disgusting that water is?”

“It can’t be any more disgusting than I feel now,” he mumbled, and Dean felt a pang of guilt. He sat down next to Aidan, coaxing his chin up and catching sight of his pale face and bloodshot eyes. “God, you look terrible.”

“Thanks, Deano.”

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked, and a faint glimmer appeared in Aidan’s eyes. “Anything?”

“Yeah, Aid, what is it?”

“You know what the best hangover cure in the world is? A Krispy Kreme… or six,” he mused, eyeing Dean hopefully. “I’m Irish, we know all about hangovers.”

Stephen laughed from the other side of the room. “I reckon Dean _would_ do just about anything for you, Aidan, but I think he’d draw the line at flying to Australia to get you a donut.”

Thankfully, Dean’s makeup and beard did a good job of hiding the embarrassed flush crawling up his neck at Stephen’s words – not that anyone was looking at him. Aidan’s crestfallen face was very much centre stage. “Are you telling me that there are no Krispy Kremes in this goddamn country?”

“Sorry, Aidan.”

He just sighed, leaning forward and resting his head on his knees again. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Dean waited for a louder protest, but it didn’t come. Aidan seemed to be resigned to his donut-less fate, and didn’t make another sound – until, a few minutes later, he started snoring.

“I don’t believe it,” Mark laughed, “the fucker’s fallen asleep.”

Dean got up very carefully, edging away from Aidan so as not to disturb him. “What time did Peter say we’re actually going to start shooting?”

“Forty minutes,” Richard offered, “why?”

“Cover for me, would you? I’m just ducking out.”

Walking into Wellington Airport in full costume (sans weapons, for obvious reasons) was probably one of the stupider things Dean had done in a while, but he knew he wouldn’t have had time to get it off and then on again before they were called to set. Mercifully, the airport was fairly quiet – and Donut King was deserted, except for a solitary, bored employee whose eyes just about popped out of her skull at Dean’s getup. She certainly didn’t strike him as the type to know anything about The Hobbit, so Dean reckoned he was fairly safe. (Mind you, the calibre of New Zealand gossip magazines was so tragic that his behaviour would probably warrant a two-page spread. Breaking News from Wellywood: Hobbit Actor Likes Donuts.)

He made it back with just over fifteen minutes to spare – internally thanking Peter for picking Miramar as the venue for Weta because of its proximity to the airport and therefore the only donut chain he could think of at short notice – only to find that no one had moved and Aidan was still napping, his head now lolling back against the wall. Silently, he placed the box at Aidan’s feet before resuming his position next to him like he’d never left at all.

Aidan jerked awake when the call came, confusion written across his features at the sight his gift. Dean hadn’t known how many to get, but figured that a round dozen (of the most chocolate and sprinkle-covered options available) were bound to go down well.

And they did.

A wide grin split Aidan’s face as he looked around at everyone for a clue. “Where did these come from?”

No answer was forthcoming as the dwarves busied themselves with collecting their things and heading towards set. Dean tried to follow them, but Aidan grabbed his wrist. “Deano.”

“Yes?”

“Did you buy the donuts?”

“Possibly.”

Aidan’s grin grew, and he tugged Dean closer, wrapping his arms around him as best he could when they were both in full costume and, in Dean’s case, bristling with weapons once more. “You take such good care of me,” he breathed into Dean’s neck, and Dean resisted the urge to tangle his fingers in his wig and kiss the breath out of him, instead opting to say nothing and just quietly revel in the embrace until Aidan pulled away. “Come on, let’s go kick some orc arse. But first,” he proffered the box, “pick your poison.”

“I got them for you, not to share around.”

“I’m not sharing them around,” Aidan said like it was obvious, the box not wavering, “I’m sharing them with you.”

Dean couldn’t help but smile as he picked a chocolate-coated jam ball. Aidan nodded sagely at his selection before grabbing another himself and stuffing it in his mouth, his next words coming out with a puff of icing sugar (that Dean suddenly had an irresistible urge to lick off his lips). “Okay, that’ll get me through the first few takes.”

The donuts really did make a difference. Dean couldn’t help but smile at the way Aidan was swinging his sword around enthusiastically, loosening his muscles in preparation for the scene. If he hadn’t seen him less than an hour before, curled on the floor and looking like death, he would never have guessed that he’d had anything less than a full eight hours of sleep last night – let alone been out on a solo bender.

“You should tell him,” Richard murmured, a kingly hand on the heir’s shoulder, and Dean felt his lips go numb. “What do you mean?”

“You know full well what I mean.”


	2. Chapter 2

+1.

“Where are we going?”

Dean smirked. “You know, it doesn’t matter how many times you ask, I’m still not going to tell you until we get there.”

Aidan’s adorable pout made him want to give in – almost. “You’re so contrary.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Unbelievable: there was a park right out front. Dean slotted into it nicely, not missing the scowl from the guy in the car behind him who had obviously had exactly the same idea and was now going to have to either park a block away or do another loop around in desperation.

Aidan’s mock irritation had given way entirely, and he was eying the shop front out his window with excitement. “This is – _yes,_ Deano.”

“Wait here,” Dean told him, trying not to beam in triumph at Aidan’s response, “I ordered over the phone, so they should be ready.”

Sure enough, when he gave his name to the girl at the counter, she handed over a small mountain of cardboard boxes that smelled even more incredible than he’d expected. He passed her a few twenties, Aidan’s enthused response to his choice of dinner prompting him to tell her to keep the change.

Aidan was practically hanging out the window in anticipation and lunged for the goodies once Dean was within arm’s reach. “God, they smell amazing. Thank you for remembering.”

Dean just grinned. It had been weeks since the topic of the Mt Vic Chippery had come up on set, in the context of a heated debate about the best fish and chips in the country. The local crew members maintained that the Chippery was a serious contender, and the picture they’d painted had appealed to Aidan so much he’d practically started salivating. Dean had made a mental note of that fact, filing it away for future reference, to pull out when he needed it most.

That time was apparently now.

In the past few weeks, Aidan seemed to have lost some of his sparkle. Dean wasn’t sure what had happened – if anything – to set him off. And he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed: Richard had pulled him aside one day to ask in hushed tones if Aidan was okay (because if anyone would know, it would be his brother). Dean had prodded gently, but Aidan had just clammed up, saying it was nothing. So he’d spent a couple of days pondering what he could do to help. That was when he’d hit on the idea of the Chippery.

Of course, plying Aidan with fish and chips was only part of the plan.

“So, what now?” Aidan asked, cradling their dinner in his arms. “I’ve gotta say, if you’re thinking of taking this back to Stone St, you’re going to get ambushed – we’ll be lucky if we see a chip between us.”

The image made Dean smile even more. “No, we’re not going to Stone St.”

“Where, then?”

“Up.”

Of course, the fact that the route was clearly signposted for tourists gave matters away long before they arrived – not that Aidan looked disappointed in the slightest. He was still clutching the fish and chips protectively but allowed Dean to loop a bag of additional supplies over one shoulder anyway, and followed Dean up to the Mt Vic lookout on foot obediently (keeping his grumbling about the incline to a minimum).

“Wow,” he breathed. Dean knew that some of the others had come up here on a tourist jaunt one day, but both Dean and Aidan had been required on set, so they’d missed out – not that he minded in the slightest, not now, not when Aidan looked so awestruck.

The sun had already disappeared over the hills but the sky was still a hazy blue, the city spread out beneath them. It had been such a glorious day – at least they’d been able to spend most of it outside, charging around in front of the giant green screen set up in a corner of the studio car park.

“Come on,” he prompted, sidling around the railing and heading back down the other side of the hill to a patch of grass that looked like it was made for picnicking, “the chips will get cold.”

He unpacked as Aidan settled himself, prying the first box open just enough to stick two fingers in and snaffle a chip – before being distracted by what Dean was producing. “You brought beer too?”

“Of course,” he smirked, handing Aidan a bottle and reaching into the next bag for – 

“You brought _my blanket_?”

“I can’t believe you’re more excited about that than you are about the beer,” Dean laughed, shaking his head as Aidan wrapped the fluffy Briscoes blanket around his shoulders and making a mental note to take a picture before they left. Settling in himself, he eyed the boxes, already seeping grease and promising an excellent meal.

“Now, food?”

“Too fucking right.”

In less than a minute, Dean concluded that those crew guys were onto something: these were definitely the best fish and chips he’d ever had. He’d bought a selection of things off the menu, wanting Aidan to sample as much as possible, including –

“What are these?” Aidan asked curiously, picking up a chip that definitely wasn’t potato and sniffing it.

“Kumara chips, try them.” Dean grabbed a couple, but Aidan just frowned. “Kumara?”

“Sweet potato to you,” Dean snickered, having forgotten about the other man’s wariness of Maori words. (The way that Dean had laughed when he’d first heard Aidan butcher the language had probably made him regress so far that there was no coming back.)

“Oh,” Aidan brightened, biting into one (albeit hesitantly). “They’re good!”

“You sound so surprised,” Dean teased, “were you expecting me to try to poison you?”

“Come on, Deano, I know you’re jealous of me being the hottest dwarf. I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“Shut up and eat your dinner. And pass me another beer.”

After sampling all of the pieces of fish (there had been too many varieties on offer for Dean to pick just one each), Aidan ended up inhaling the majority of the chips as well, which had prompted a snicker from Dean about the Irish and their potatoes. Aidan punched him in the arm in response.

But he couldn’t complain about Aidan’s inability to share – not when the life had come back into his eyes and he looked happier and more relaxed than he had in – well, quite some time, now that Dean thought about it. Maybe he’d been declining slowly for a while.

Maybe the fact that the other dwarves were noticing now served as a testament to how bad things had become.

And maybe – no, definitely – Dean had to try to help in any way that he could.

It was dark by the time they finally finished their food, Dean sneaking a glance at his phone (perfect, the last part of his surprise wasn’t too far away now) as Aidan lay back, propping himself up on his elbows with a sigh and surveying the city beneath them. “Looks even smaller from up here,” he snarked, laughter bubbling out as Dean rolled his eyes. A comfortable silence stretched between them until Dean finally summoned up the courage to speak again, to say what had been on his mind for the past several weeks.

“Hey, Aid?”

“Mm?”

“You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”

Aidan just frowned, not quite understanding, and Dean bumbled on. “I mean, the others have asked me a couple of times if you’re okay, because you haven’t seemed yourself for a while… If anything’s wrong, or you’re unhappy, I’m here if you want to talk. We are brothers, after all.” He tried for a small smile, gratified when Aidan returned it.

“Thanks, Deano, but I’m not sure that you can help me out of this mess.”

“But I can try,” he responded, “a problem shared is a problem halved and all that, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Aidan admitted, sitting back up and reaching for the remnants of his last beer, staring down the neck and rubbing his thumb over the edge of the label repeatedly as he finally spoke.

“I’m in love with someone who doesn’t love me.”

Oh, of course.

It had been Dean’s first guess, back when he’d tried to coax the issue out of Aidan (albeit less bluntly than tonight’s attempt) – he’d just refused to admit, at the time, that she was the problem.

“Aid, I’m sure you’ll be able to sort things out with Sarah. Just give her a few weeks to cool off and reassess things, and you can go home in the break, sit down and talk things through. She’d be an idiot not to –”

“I’m not talking about Sarah.”

He drained his beer, staring out across the harbour, still refusing to make eye contact with Dean and clearly completely unaware of the fear and nausea (and – hope? Yes, it was, a tiny but determined little flicker of hope) curling in his gut.

“Then who –”

“Sarah dumped me because she could tell there was someone else. I think she knew before I did – well, at least, before I’d been honest with myself about it. And now I’m alone and I just _can’t_ –”

“Hey.” Cutting off Aidan’s morose diatribe, he scooted closer – close enough for their shoulders to bump – and gave him what he hoped was a reassuring grin. “It’ll all work out in the end.”

But the smile died on his face as Aidan finally, finally looked at him, eyes dark and almost curious as they skimmed his face and came to rest on his mouth before flicking up again questioningly.

That look meant one thing, and one thing only.

Dean’s face had frozen in surprise, but apparently his expression was at least somewhat encouraging, because Aidan’s eyes cleared and one corner of his mouth turned up hopefully.

“You know, I’m starting to think you might be right.”

And then Aidan kissed him, and his brain short-circuited.

The kiss was short, a soft press of lips and nothing more, but it took his breath away – along with his ability to respond appropriately.

“You idiot,” he blurted, regretting his choice of words immediately as Aidan jerked back like he’d been punched, shame flushing his cheeks and destroying his ability to form a coherent sentence. “Oh, fuck, Dean, I’m so sorry, I didn’t – can we – like this never happened –”

“Don’t,” Dean whispered fiercely, grabbing the collar of Aidan’s shirt and tugging him back into his space. “That is _not_ what I meant.”

“Then what –”

“You don’t get to walk away from this, not when…” He swallowed hard, heart thumping in his throat.

Oh, fuck it.

Aidan had bared everything, so he could do the same.

“Not when I’ve been wishing it would happen ever since I met you.”

“Oh.”

Aidan paused, digesting his words, a small frown creasing his brows. “In that case, I see what you mean – I really am an idiot.”

Another beat, and then a smirk appeared. Dean had never been quite so pleased to see it. “Any chance I could make up for that now?”

“Mm, you better.”

They could talk later – there was an admission that Dean was dying to get to the bottom of, after all. Aidan had said he was in love with – well, him, just not in so many words. It made exhilarating happiness bubble in his stomach.

But the conversation could wait.

He had other far more urgent things to attend to in the meantime.

Aidan leaned in again, both of them grinning like idiots, and nudged their noses together with a small, delighted laugh before their mouths met.

This kiss was markedly more sure and exploratory, and Dean melted into it, grasping Aidan’s arms and holding on for dear life as he lavished attention on Dean’s cupid’s bow, alternating between sucks and sharp little bites that made him whimper helplessly.

He changed the game just as Dean started to wonder if he was going to pass out from sheer pleasure (or from the fact that all the blood in his body appeared to be pooling in his groin), his tongue nudging Dean’s lips until he opened his mouth and let Aidan push inside with a groan, the sensation igniting a fire in his stomach that he had no desire to ever put out.

That was when the fireworks started – literally.

Aidan pulled away, startled, and barked out a laugh at the bursts of colour and light above Oriental Bay.

“You knew about this, didn’t you?”

“Mm… maybe,” Dean acknowledged, still dazed and entirely incoherent. It had been the final part of his plan: good food and beer atop Mt Vic, with the fireworks as the final course. (The fireworks of an entirely different kind that had resulted – well, that was an unexpected and wonderful addition.) Of course, he didn’t doubt that Aidan would have some teasing criticism to make, and sure enough –

“Really, though,” Aidan added, his well-kissed mouth curving into an obnoxious grin, “they’re a bit feeble – ever been to London for New Year’s Eve? Now that’s a proper – mph.”

Dean wasn’t interested in talking in the slightest. It was dark, after all, and there was no one else around, and they had months to make up for. So he’d taken fistfuls of Aidan’s hair, pulled him closer and kissed him forcefully until they were both breathless – and all the while, the fireworks continued to blossom in the sky across the harbour.

“I take it all back,” Aidan murmured against his lips, “I fucking love this country.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it... sorry, the last 100 words always seem to be the hardest! Hope you enjoyed and feel free to leave comments and kudos ;)
> 
> I have approximately 1000 other bits and pieces that I want to write and post on here so keep an eye out if you're interested - next will probably be some RichLee #sorrynotsorry
> 
> Also: there will be a sequel (of sorts) to this one - no title yet but it will begin something like this:
> 
>  
> 
> _Aidan had discovered very quickly that a relationship with Dean should come with a warning label._
> 
>  
> 
> _Caution: must be willing to be photographed at all times._
> 
>  
> 
> Five times Aidan didn't want to be photographed, and one time he insisted on it.
> 
> :)
> 
> Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> *waves* this is my first time writing fanfic in a loooong time and also my first venture into this fandom, so comments and hellos (mostly hellos - especially if there's anyone else on here from NZ/Wellington) are much appreciated!
> 
> I've been reading on here for a while and every so often I come across a story set during filming which refers to things that just don't exist in NZ - so this is my response :)


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